I swallowed.
“Where is his office?”
“Chelsea, maybe you should let him explain.”
“Where is he?”
Arnold finally pointed down the corridor.
I walked away.
I wasn’t running.
I wasn’t crying.
Not yet.
I simply walked.
Ben’s office door was partially open.
I pushed it wider.
And stopped.
His office was half empty.
Two bookshelves had been cleared.
Medical books were packed into cardboard boxes.
His desk drawers were open.
The framed photograph of me and Olive had been wrapped in newspaper.
The coffee mug Olive had painted for him when she was six was sitting inside a box.
I stared at it.
That mug had a crooked purple heart painted on the side.
Olive had been so proud of it.
Ben had kept it for eight years.
Now it was packed like something from a house he was leaving behind.
Then I saw the folder.
OREGON.
Relocation.
Salary.
Start Date.
